"What can they do--a.s.sa.s.sinate me?"

"Ah! who knows?"

"That would be too childish: I have sown my seed in Time, and it will grow: two thousand little lords could hardly obliterate the ploughing of my wrist. But you know this?"

"Richard, my father is of them".

"Ha!--I forgive him: his daughter seems to be on the other side--"

"Richard, you would not touch my hand? Ah, my friend, I warn you--!

Now--you have agitated--I have been ill--my father is of them. And who is one of the closest a.s.sociates of my father--?"

"Who?"

"The person known as Admiral Donald, whom _I_ know very well to be Monsignor O'Hara. I think you might have been more--recondite--in your choice of an admiral, Richard!"

"Ah?--you surprise me".

"But why? You once sent that man to me as a notebearer: certainly, a singular selection. You must have known that he had been a convict--"

"I thought him innocent then!"

"But you know now--?"

"Yes".

"And is it not extraordinary that your ensign bears my initials, while this man is one of your commanders?"

"I confess that I do not see the point--"

"Then you cannot know, I suppose, that it was against _me_ that his offence was directed".

Hogarth's left lid lowered....

"But my complaint is of the present: are you not aware of the scandal which the _Mahomet_ is now creating in the world?"

"Scandal?"

"Thrice lately whispers have reached me of unnameable iniquities perpetrated there--Alexandria of the sixth century, Rome of the second!

I believe the rumour is widely spread in London--no woman of the world now lands on the _Mahomet_".

"It was _you_ whom he a.s.saulted..." Hogarth laughed and was pale at once.

"Yes, but observe that I must go now, my friend. I have spoken of the things which I had in my mind: there remains--my father".

"He shall go with you".

"I thank you, my Lord King; that must be in an hour: so I say, Richard, good-bye".

"I do not suppose you can dream how dark--" he went woefully.

Of which she took no notice, but with rapid speech said: "How fair this hall is--one supposes that the art of impressions was lost with Solomon--like some chamber under a lake at set of sun, colour without substance, suspended, flushed--I cannot express--"

"Sad, say".

"Ah, Richard".

"Rebekah!"

"Well, Richard, my poor friend?"

"Have pity!"

"Poor Richard!"

"I can't help it, you are all mixed up with my blood, don't go from me.

If you think it a sin--the Gentile--G.o.d will forgive the charity. Come for ever--"

Now he sobbed once, and, as he sobbed, she was on her knees, in pagan posture, at his knees. "Do not--" distractedly--"see, I kiss your hand-do you doubt that I pity my love--as a mother has compa.s.sion--?"

Now were heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a vehement fight for breaths, wild eyes, and a live brand in the marrow.

"You will not go! I have you! In G.o.d's name, what a mad thing--!"

"My furious king--you kiss--" the short-winded _melee_ of whispers now suffocated in a pa.s.sion of inarticulate breaths; but at that moment one of Rebekah's chaperons, wandering out of time and place, stood at the alcove entrance, and they, smitten into two, sprang straight, awaked from trance, Rebekah with half a sob and half a laugh.

And two hours later Hogarth, from the roof, saw the Jewish yacht disappear to the East, on board being the four--and Frankl.

As he descended, he threw up his head with: "Ha!--O'Hara"; announced his immediate departure with only a secretary and two lords-in-waiting, left a mystical note for Loveday, saying that he had decided to go alone in quest of Margaret, and went almost secretly, only the salute informing the _Boodah_ as he steamed away. In reality he was in haste to face O'Hara, and the yacht's bows turned, not eastward, but southward, under forced draught, to arrive at the _Mahomet_ in early afternoon. As her flags indicated the Lord of the Sea absent, there was no salute, and, landing in a panama and jacket, in the Collector's Office he gave the sign of mum, and, led only by a blue-jacket, went spying the depths of the _Mahomet_.

In many parts, noticing a singular odour, "What is it I smell?" he asked.

"Incense, my Lord King", the man answered.

On the fourth floor he entered the loveliest _bijou_ chapel, the coenaculum gold-plated, altar flower-piled, frescoed roof, "stations"

in oils, where a lonesome Moorish youth slothfully swung and swung a thurible ruby-studded: but in vestments of no _enfant de choeur_--of an ancient Phrygian.

Another descent and Hogarth reached a region of laugh and harping: whereupon, dismissing his guide, he tracked the music into a nook so rare, that he stood amazed--a Court of Love, or Mahommedan Heaven, or grot of Omar--anything old, lovely, and devil-sacred--the air chokingly odorous, near a fountain some brazen demon--Moloch or Baal--buried in roses, over everything roses, bounty of flowers, a very harvest-home of Chloris, Flora in revel; and smooth youths bearing cups for some twenty others, all garlanded, besides those on the marble stage; and on the stage itself a scene of dancing girls, Sevillian, Neapolitan, Algerian, mixed with masked Satyrs, which made Hogarth pale, while at a Herod's-table buried under fruits, wines, flowers and gold, reclined Pat O'Hara, tonsured now, crowned with ivy and violets, gowned in a violet toga; while under a pendulum whose swings left whiffs of incense behind lay Harris insensible.

As Hogarth descended into it, harp and dance ceased; some leapt to their feet: but O'Hara sat still, gazing in a dead silence through glairy eyes, while Hogarth, looking about, spied an electric b.u.t.ton in a couch, touched it, and soon a man in uniform stood at a door above.

"Who are you?" asked Hogarth.

"John Souttar, head-telegraphist, may it please your Lordship's Majesty".

"Make haste: tell the First Lieutenant and the Chief Constable that the Lord of the Sea is here".

By now all the revellers were on their feet; no sound: only, the clicking pendulum voyaged, landed an incense-whiff, and voyaged, like traders.